The Boy of the Black Eyes
by Nichol1
Summary: Braveheart fic. Some backstory on Stephen of Ireland, taking place in the year 1271 of our Lord...


THE BOY OF THE BLACK EYES  
  
A note on the language: At some points, I have made use of Irish Gaelic (Gaeilge) and Welsh (Cymraeg). The translation is as follows:   
Tá mé ag dul: I am going.  
Oes chwant bwyd arnat ti arnoch chi?: Are you hungry?  
Da: Good.  
Nac oes: No, there isn't.  
Mab: son   
  
A note on the pronounication: Properly, Stephen in Irish is "Stíofán", pronounced "Shtee fawn". Conall is pronounced "Kul Al", and means "strong as a wolf". Gruffudd is derived from the Welsh meaning "strong lord" and is pronounced "Griffith".  
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***  
The year is 1271.  
  
The boy stood as tall as his eight summers would allow, chin thrust out defiantly, and fists clenched. He stared straight into the mocking blue eyes of his tormentor, and snarled, "You take that back."  
  
Lóegaire sneered in his face, confident in the power his greater size gave him. "You hear that?" the older boy called over his shoulder to his friends, "the bastard wants me to apologize!"  
  
As his followers began snickering, Lóegaire threw back his head and laughed heartily. Taunting those smaller than he always made him feel powerful.   
  
Stephen ground his teeth, standing his ground. Words no longer had the power to cut him to the quick. Being base-born, one had to have thick skin. Leaning back on his heels, he let his left fist fly, smashing into the side of the bully-boy's head.   
  
Lóegaire yelped, hitting the ground with a satisfying thud. Before he had time to swell with anger, Stephen was upon him, punching, kicking, biting, and spitting in unholy rage. Lóegaire cried out, swinging back but unable to dislodge his smaller but incredibly vicious attacker.  
  
Stephen tackled him with surprising strength, getting his opponent down and keeping him there. As his fists made contact yet again with Lóegaire's eye socket, he hissed out, "Take it back!"  
  
Suddenly there were hands, hands everywhere, hands lifting him up and flinging him aside brutally. Stephen found himself sprawled on his belly some feet away from his would be assailant, blinking as he tried to regain his bearings.   
  
Lifting his head, he found several irate boys glaring down at him and could hear Lóegaire's curses. This was it, Stephen realized, trying to cover his face. They were all going to pile on him now, and he couldn't hope to fight off all of them. He just hoped blissful unconsciousness would come quickly.  
  
"No! No!" Stephen was taken aback as he discovered he had a tiny champion: Lóegaire's baby sister, Eilonora. With her chubby cheeks and flaming red hair she looked like an angel, sent to deliver him.   
  
"Please don't hurt him!" Eilonora cried, grabbing Stephen's shoulder. "You pick fights, Lóegaire, you know you do! But this is all your fault! Leave Stephen alone!"  
  
"Bastard!" Lóegaire spat blood, as a friend pulled him to his feet. With the appearance of his baby sister, his beating at the hands of someone he thought would be easy prey, and his failure to save face, all the fight had drained out of him. Kicking a rock at Stephen, he grumbled, "Go on, go away. Go back to your whore mother, bastard!" Like all bullies, Lóegaire was only brave when he had others backing him up.  
  
Lóegaire had lost a tooth. Stephen allowed himself some smugness as he scrambled to his feet. As he took off in the direction of his home, he whispered an unheard curse that all of Lóegaire's other teeth would rot and fall out. That would show him.  
  
"Stephen! Wait!"  
  
He paused, glanced back over his shoulder darkly at the plump little form that came flying his way like a red-winged bird. Eilonora hitched up her skirts, her hair flying behind her unhindered. She was breathing heavily by the time she reached him.  
  
"Tá mé ag dul," he told her, pulling his now torn coat tighter about his chin. The wind was picking up, and as the night encroached, the chill in the air grew more biting.  
  
Eilonora halted before him, her little white face suddenly so shy. "I am sorry," she began quietly, "for what Lóegaire did. He's a bully, and always has been."  
  
Stephen studied this delicate little bird more closely. Not yet in her sixth winter, Eilonora already had more sense and kindness in her sad blue eyes than people much older had in their entire bodies.  
  
"Don't be sorry, lass." he told her, shaking his head. "Was no fault of yours."  
  
Eilonora stared down at her feet a moment before murmuring a soft: "Please excuse me." She then turned about and ran off, back to her village and her mother.  
  
And Stephen turned himself, glancing back just once to see her disapear into a snug little cottage. He had a home of his own to go to.  
*** *** ***  
He is Edward. Know as "Longshanks" to some, "The Hammer" to others, he is as magnificent as he is brutal. Standing a towering six feet, two inches, with thick dark-blond hair and piercing eyes, Edward is everything an English King ought to be. His sinewy, muscular arms were proud aquisitions of a life devoted to the sword; his angular face marred only by a sharpely drooping left eyelid inherited from his father.  
  
Unlike his namesake, the Confessor, he is as impressive on the battlefield as on his throne, as warlike as the former King was saintly.   
  
He is the Leopard Prince.  
  
But he will be a Prince no longer; it was years ago, in 1265, that he defeated the barons at Evesham. And now, he knows his father, King Henry, will not live many more days upon this Earth. Someday, and soon, Edward will rule England.  
  
But today, his heart bleeds.   
  
He cradled their young son in his arms, staring down at the still figure. It was just an hour ago that the frail little boy Leonor had named John in honor of Edward's grandfather had lost a life-or-death battle with a runaway respiratory infection.   
  
It is early August; the sun is shining brutally, as though in defiance of all the sorrow that swells within the souls of two grieving parents.   
  
Edward lay his son -- so cold, so very cold to the touch -- on the bed, covering John's face with a soft, clean sheet. Turning, he approached his wife.   
  
Leonor was curled upon a nearby couch, her face buried in her hands. This was not the first child they'd lost; one little girl, Joan, had been born and died on the same day. But death always struck his beautiful, gentle Spanish wife like a tidal wave, sapping her of her strength. Leonor collapsed in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Edward was relieved they were alone -- such a display would never have been appropriate before the court. But here and now, they were but man and wife, united in shared sorrow. His wife's soulful brown eyes found his face, brimming with hot tears and rimmed in red.  
  
"Why? Oh, why our little Juan?" Leonor was especially upset; only when she was on the verge of hysterics did she slip back into Spanish.   
  
"No man knows what God has planned for us or ours," consoled Edward, stroking her long, rich brown hair. "We must except what He has ordained for us." Even as he said them, the words seemed hollow.   
  
Leonor pressed herself closer, taking comfort in her husband's powerful frame. Sent to be his child-bride when she was barely ten, Leonor had always accepted Edward as the one constant in her life. Now, he was all she had to cling to in this, the most horrifying moment in her young life. Edward's arms closed around her protectively; and though he made no sound, she knew instinctively how much their little boy's death must have wounded him. He gently began rocking her back and forth, allowing her to grieve sufficiently.   
  
Gaining control of herself, Leonor dried her eyes and kissed her husband, whispering, "Te amo, Edward."   
  
Edward kissed her forehead in return, and watched as she left the bedchambers. Leonor was going to break the news to their other children; how much this must hurt her to do!  
  
Turning, Edward walked back to the bed. He stared down numbly at the small, still bundle as priests entered to consecrate the tiny body. Reaching out, his fingers just grazed the cheek of his child.   
  
His arm dropped. Silently, Edward stalked from the room.  
  
This was not the first loss he would suffer. In the years to come, he would lose his other sons, Henry and Alfonso. His daughters Julian, Alice, Berengaria, Isabella, Beatrice, and Blanche would all predecease their father. And then, in 1290, even his beloved Leonor would die, while on her way to join him in his campaign agaisnt the Scots.  
  
But the Leopard Prince does not know these things yet. Perhaps it is just as well. Knowledge of future pain would be more than even the strongest man could bear.  
  
More than anyone can bear, man or boy.  
*** *** ***  
"Och! Look at ye! You're filthy boy, and I'll not show you to your lady mother, looking such a mess."  
  
"Sorcha," Stephen moaned, trying to placate his irate nurse, "I'm fine, really. I'm just a little dirty."  
  
"A little dirty!" Sorcha's sensible green eyes widened. "What do ye call that bloody cut on your lip? A beauty mark? Nay, you're having a bath. I'm not showing ye to your mother, ere she faint dead away in horror."  
  
Stephen groaned. He hated baths. But when Sorcha crossed her arms and got that determined look in her eyes, he knew their was no escape.  
  
So his sturdy nursemaid filled a wooden tub with hot water heated from the fireplace, and set about scrubbing him down with relish. "Now, ye are not going to tell me who did this to ye, eh?" Sorcha asked, gently tracing a red scratch above his eye.   
  
Stephen figeted uncomfortably, looking away. "It's not important." he mumbled finally.  
  
"With you, it never is," sighed Sorcha, dunking a rag in the lukewarm water and scrumbing his dirty neck.  
  
"It was a boy from the village." Stephen said suddenly, so quietly she almost missed it.  
  
"Aye, that tanner's son again, was it? Always causing trouble, that one. What was his grief with ye?"  
  
Stephen gritted his teeth. He hated Lóegaire and his words, but somehow telling Sorcha about the incident was strangely comforting. "He said -- he said Momma was a whore. A 'half-mad, Welsh whore'. She's not, not at all, and I told him so! He said to prove it with my fists, so I did."  
  
Sorcha clucked sympathetically with her tongue. She'd known Stephen since the night he was born unto this world, and knew he would defend his lady mother with words or weapons, if need be.   
  
"Please don't tell my mother," Stephen said, as Sorcha wrapped a snug towel about his body, "I don't want to upset her."  
  
"Don't tell me what?"  
  
Both Sorcha and Stephen turned at the same instant, to behold no less than Nest verch Ioreword standing in the doorway, a bolt of cloth beneath her arm. Her wondering black eyes searched the faces of her servant and her son. "What is so vitally important it can not be disclosed in my presence?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing at all, mother." Stephen stammered quickly, scrambling from his tub.   
  
Nest watched her child with a look hovering somewhere between amusement and suspicion. "Is that so?"  
  
"Oh yes, m'lady," said Sorcha, coming to her young charge's rescue, "just idle talk of the village, nothing of import."  
  
Nest still did not look convinced. She was an attractive woman, though she owned a face really more interesting than beautiful. Not very tall, but with a slender and well-maintained figure, the Welsh woman was dark in the manner of her countrymen. With her bottomless black eyes and unruly hair, Nest had set more than a few tongues to wagging about supposed witch-craft.   
  
Like his mother, her son was dark, abnormally so compared to other Irishmen. For though he was a half-blood Welsh, Stephen was utterly certain that he was Irish in spirit, through and through. He lived on the tales his father had fed him, of Saint Padraic and the snakes, Brian Boru and his defeat of Sigurd the Stout's Viking army at the Battle of Clontarf, of the well-meaning Tiernan O'Rourke and his enemy, the fiendish Diarmat MacMurrough, and of Diarmat's abduction of Tiernan's wife, Dervorgilla. Stephen had taken them in, learned them by heart and loved them by heart, and his father's stories were his most treasured possesions.  
  
Conall mac Máeludir had been dead a year, fallen in the battle of Ath an Kip fighting for Aedh O'Connor agaisnt the Norman lord Walter de Burgo. The Normans had been routed, but Conall had fallen with them.  
  
No greater injury had ever been done to his young son. Stephen worshiped his father with almost fanatic devotion, and his only comfort was the knowledge that Conall had died fighting agaisnt that which no Irishman should broke.   
  
Sorcha pulled a shirt over Stephen's head, and bustled about cleaning up some spilled water. Nest knelt by her child, carefully soothed a nasty welt on his cheek with a soft kiss. Stephen blushed in spite of himself; he was almost a man, and men didn't need their mother's kisses to ease their suffering. Yet he could not deny it comforted him. "I suppose you'll not tell me how this really happened until you want to," murmured Nest, gazing fondly at him from under heavy black lashes, "but I hope you will. I don't like to see you in pain."  
  
Stephen dropped her gaze, suddenly saddened at having caused his lady mother distress.  
  
The only daughter of a Welsh lord who would not see her wed to some Norman lord, Nest had instead been brought to Ireland with her elder brother, Gruffudd. When her beloved brother had died of the pox, she had been taken in by his friend, Conall mac Máeludir, who was impressed with her exotic beauty and bound to an oath made to Gruffudd to protect her. She had lived with Conall openly, delighted with just being loved. But soon after the birth of their only child, Conall had begun wishing for an independant Ireland, a free land for their son to live in. It was that wish that had led to his demise. She took solace in that he died to make that wish a reality. She only hoped her son would not have to as well.  
  
For Stephen was his son, base-born as he was. The Welsh had no biases agaisnt those born in or out of wedlock, and so Nest had not concieved that others would view her child as wanting, so long as Conall had acknowledged Stephen as his. But now she looked on her son with new eyes, remembering that Normans, Irish, and the Holy Church viewed bastardy very differently from her people; this gave Nest cause for concern.  
  
"Oes chwant bwyd arnat ti arnoch chi?" Nest asked, picking Stephen up from under his arms and depositing him in his chair at the table.  
  
"Oh, yes!" responded the boy, watching eagerly as Sorcha ladled pea soup into his bowl.  
  
"Da," purred his mother, sliding into her own chair opposite him. But she had not even had the chance to reach for her spoon when they heard it. A deafening crash, a roar, and a groan punctuated with curses. Nest sat straight up in her chair, staring at the front door of their cottage, her eyes wide. There were more curses, and then the definite sound of footsteps.  
  
Stephen twisted about in his seat, mouth agape. He glanced at Sorcha, but her face had gone white; this was obviously not something she was expecting. Stephen returned his attentions to the door, too startled at this sudden interruption to process what was happening. Nest had just stepped back from the table when the front door was nearly kicked off it's hinges. A cold wind blew in, and Stephen could make out the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. His mother let out an audible gasp as Sorcha stumbled backwards, both too terrified to make a sound.  
  
"Sweet Christ, woman," the man growled, stepping forward, "have you no welcome for your visitors, expected or no?" He let out a harsh, barking laugh; he spoke heavily accented French.  
  
Immediantly, Nest's wits returned to her, and she sprang forward to defend her son. "Who are you?" she demanded, eyes flashing and fists clenched. "What are you doing in my home?"  
  
The man strode in, as though he owned this cottage. Stephen still had not said a word, but noted the man was limping. "I'm a refugee," muttered the stranger, slumping into Nest's abandoned chair, "who's name is cursed. But you may call me Sir Simon FitzRou, if if pleases you, lady."  
  
"You're a Norman!" Nest cried, and Stephen felt every muscle in his body stiffen. This man was Norman-English, and a knight besides -- what mischief was he concocting? Whatever it was, Stephen resolved to defend his mother's honor from this man if need be, and he studied the stranger with critical eyes.  
  
Sir Simon FitzRou, if that was his name, grunted in reply. "You are a clever wench. Now, be a good girl and bring me some water."  
  
"I will bring you nothing, as I owe you nothing, Norman!" spat Nest, stalking forward angrily, terror replaced by hatred. If only Conall were here, this man would never dare such as this!  
  
Simon chuckled deep in his throat, leaning back in the chair and looking about his surroundings. A bandage on his leg was red with seeping blood, and it was obviously a recent wound. "Don't worry about me, wench. I'm only taking shelter here for the night. Come morning, I'm leaving this god-forsaken island, and never returning. You'll never see my face again, rest assured."  
  
Simon's dark blue eyes narrowed, and he wiped the side of his beak-like nose with his powerful, sun-burnt paw. "You're the lady of this house, wench?"  
  
"I am Nest verch Ioreword, and since the death of my lord and master, I do keep this manor. And you are not welcome here!" There, thought Nest. Let the intruder know who he is dealing with!  
  
Simon ignored her for a moment, reaching across the table and lifting Stephen's untouched cup to his lips. He drank deeply, enjoying the water on his parched lips, and then said, "A Welshwoman, aye? Odd to see one of your kind here. I'll be damned if I didn't escape your accursed country and all its half-mad denizens, only to end up here, being snarled at by another wild Welshwoman!" Simon chuckled deeply at that, as Nest stared on in impotent rage.  
  
Suddenly serious, Simon addressed Nest once more. "Are there any weapons here?"  
  
"Nac oes," Nest shook her head, "we are not permitted to bear arms. And even if we were, who would use them?"  
  
"Pity." the Norman placed the cup back down, now looking at Stephen as though this were the first time he'd noticed him. "And you, boy? Are you not the one who'd be wielding the sword and the bow?" Simon cocked one eyebrow. Stephen thrust out his chin defiantly. This ignorant stranger ought to know he was yet too young to bear arms, even were it legal. This knight was taunting him. Simon removed his cloak, letting it drape off the back of his chair. It was caked with blood and sun-baked dirt, but the colors still shined through. "Are you not going to answer your elders?" the elder man mused, more to himself than the boy. "I suppose not."   
  
Simon turned to Nest, who was watching him as a cat watched those who touch her kittens. "Is he yours?"  
  
Nest nodded her head. "Aye, he's my mab."  
  
The knight seemed to be amused by this. "Foolish question, I know. Anyone with eyes can tell he is yours. No Irishman was ever so dark..."  
  
"I'm Irish!" snarled Stephen with surprising force, "I'm as Irish as any other man! I was born here, and it is in my blood!"  
  
"Stephen!" gasped Sorcha, startled by his outrage. The maid was huddled by the door to the bedroom, too frightened to look Simon FitzRou in the eye.  
  
"Are you now, boy?" Simon's mouth quirked up in what might once have been a charming smile, marred only by several deep scars and a missing front tooth. "Stephen, your name is?"  
  
"Yes," Stephen responded sullenly, still staring brazenly at Simon.  
  
"Hmmmph," Simon dipped a bit of bread into the pea soup, "We had a king of England who was named Stephen."  
  
Despite himself, Stephen's interest was peaked. He had rarely thought about England in anything other than immediant terms; as far as he knew, King Henry was their first king, their only king, and their last king. That the English had once been ruled over by a man bearing his name was oddly curious. "You did?"  
  
"Aye," Simon bit into the bread, "A grandson of the Conqueror, was he. When his uncle, the first King Henry, died leaving only his daughter Maud as heir, Stephen seized the throne. He and his cousin battled over the Kingship for twenty more years."  
  
"What happened?" asked Stephen, wanting to know more.   
  
"Oh, she married a devil-begotten Angevin and had a son. And Stephen, who was weary of war, appointed that son as his heir. He lived out what was left of his reign in peace, and then after he died, Maud's son became our second king to bear the name Henry. That Henry was grandfather of our King Henry, may God assoil him."  
  
At that, Nest snorted, still staring at the Norman with cruel eyes. "God assoil him, indeed! After the mess he's made of things, he needs all the prayers that can be mustered!"  
  
Simon studied her critically, removing his muddy boots and sliding them under the table. "A brazen one, aren't ye, wench? Aye, but you speak the truth. But mark my words, when King Henry dies -- and God willing, it will be soon -- and his son, the Prince Edward, ascends the throne, it'll be you Irish and Welsh that will need the prayers!"  
  
"I am no wench," spat Nest with poison driping from her words, "and I don't fear your Prince Edward. May you, and all those like you, go back to your homeland and leave us be!"  
  
Much to everyone's surprise, especially Nest's, Simon burst out laughing and slapped his knee. "By Christ! You remind me of my wife, the Lady Matilda. She's a spitfire like you, but fair as you are dark. You two would be kindred spirits, I think."  
  
Nest didn't appreciate being compared to some Norman woman, and let him know that with a dark look. Simon brushed her off like he would a flea, spreading his cloak on the floor. "I'll sleep here tonight, if you don't mind. I'll be gone by first light."  
  
With that, he stretched out on his crude pallet and promptly fell fast asleep, the sleep of bone weariness. Nest stepped over him, grabbing Stephen and Sorcha and bustling them off into the other end of the manor. "Stephen, you'll sleep with Sorcha tonight." she told him, tucking him in warmly. For his part, he uttered not a word of complaint. Nest didn't sleep that night, staying up and stoking the fire, keeping a watchful eye on Simon's sleeping form.  
  
For his part, Simon kept his word. Come first light, he lit out like he had the devil on his tail. As soon as he woke and dressed, Stephen left the manor, running up to the fence separating their property from the main road. He stood there for a long time, staring off into the southeast. Nest joined him there shortly. "What are you looking at, son?" she asked, curious.  
  
"The enemy." Stephen whispered. 


End file.
